


Two Player

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (research dates theyre professional), Aquariums, Arcades, First Dates, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Holding Hands, Jon's childhood in Bournemouth, M/M, Presents, he got very good at penny slots, pre s1 research era, they play ddr and kiss idk what else you're looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: ‘How are you winning this?’ Tim demands without any petulance as another round of coppers clatter from the shelf into the pot by Jon’s knee. ‘No one wins at this!’They are doing ‘research’, supposedly.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 68
Kudos: 416





	Two Player

**Author's Note:**

> no angst no shouting no hate-kissing jus pure early jontim fluff....... thas it..... is this the highest art ie ever produced? no, but u know what? theyre just cute and thats all we can ask for :)
> 
> (maybe a tiny bit of angst bc jon was a lonely child and tims lost danny but they have each other to kiss uwu)

‘How are you winning this?’ Tim demands without any petulance as another round of coppers clatter from the shelf into the pot by Jon’s knee. ‘No one wins at this!’

They are doing ‘research’, supposedly. This crappy little arcade, with its bus-seat carpet and its daytime fluorescents, is apparently haunted. Or something like that. Someone told someone they saw something or some other nonsense. So the Institute has sent along its best researchers to have a look. Kind of. 

Tim had thrust his hand enthusiastically in the air and demanded dibs. Then, when their supervisor had left, eyeing his grin suspiciously, Tim had turned his smile on Jon and insisted that he needed a partner in crime. 

Jon had suspected, correctly, that Tim thinks he needs fresh air and exercise and... _fun_. Needs to get his head out of his arse and out of his books. Normally that suspicion would have put him right off going anywhere with anyone, even Tim. But he’s actually quite at home in arcades, and he’d rather relished the idea of doing something he’s good at. A nice break from slaving over the particularly dusty tome that’s currently wearing his brain out. And a change, maybe, from Tim’s easy confidence and his awkward stumbling. 

So they are not really doing research, because Jon doesn’t need to research the penny slots. He’s already an expert. He’s just showing Tim the technique. Or showing off, maybe. Just a bit. 

‘I’ve spent more hours playing this,’ he says with a pleased lightness, ‘than I bet you have in the library.’ 

It’s quite fun actually, this showing off lark. He can see why Tim does it so much. It gives a dazed, amused look to Tim’s smile. 

Tim ignores the jibe, or doesn’t think it’s as important as asking ‘You have?’ with an incredulous curiosity. 

‘I grew up on these,’ Jon says, waiting just a few more seconds... ‘On all of this.’ 

He pushes another penny in and smiles when it lands just right, scooting the potential avalanche forward another centimetre. Just a couple more... 

‘Where are you from again?’ Tim asks, more to himself, like he’s trying to answer trivia and doesn’t want a hint. 

He doesn’t know, can’t know, because Jon hasn’t told him. This is the first time they’ve hung out outside of work just the two of them. The pub doesn’t really count, Jon reasons, since he was practically dragged there with a gaggle of the other, very loud assistants, and had spent the whole time batting Tim’s attempts at conversation away. 

They’ve warmed up a bit since. Tim tries to stop him staying too late, and Jon puts the stationary Tim needs on his desk so he doesn’t clatter when he faffs around looking for it. Or at least it had started to save the faffing. Tim beams at him every time. He has an annoying habit of returning Jon’s stapler with post-it faces stuck to it. 

There have been a few close evenings where they’ve worked from the same desk, bent over the same blueprint in the same puddle of desk lamp light. The wheels on their chairs knock as they scoot closer. 

Tim knows a lot about architecture, and when he goes on about it he checks Jon’s following, or that he isn’t telling him something he already knows. Considerately. He’s much better at dumping information than Jon is. He makes it interesting and doesn’t garble, seems able to stop at any time. He’d pointed it out once, jokingly. 

‘You know you’ve been on about that case for an hour now?’

‘Oh,’ Jon had said as if he’d walked into a window.

‘Do you just... tune me out and keep going?’

‘No, I know you’re here.’ 

Tim’s smile had been smaller than normal then. So either Jon had said something wrong, or it had been as close to bashful as Tim Stoker gets. 

‘I’m listening,’ he’d said. 

So he’d know if he’d been told. But his face still furrows as he thinks. 

‘Somewhere by the sea I’m guessing. South coast?’ 

Jon allows him that one clue with a goading hum. 

‘Brighton?’

‘Hah, no.’ 

Nothing as exciting as that. He’d been once with school and had a wonderful time getting purposeful misplaced from the rest in the Lanes. Like a fairytale of niche interests and tight wiggling spaces until the teachers had threatened to phone home and he’d felt awful again. But he’s hardly got the Brighton vibe, he doesn’t think. He’s not exactly loud, and he’s not sure what about his elbow patches and boring bookishness screams extroverted Green Party member. 

‘Falmouth?’

‘No.’

‘Plymouth?’

‘Nope.’

Tim groans. ‘Am I at least getting warmer?’

(He’s leant back against the next machine over, bicep pressed against Jon’s shoulder as he watches the machine moving and, more often, seems to be watching Jon concentrate. He is quite warm actually.) 

‘You’re close.’ 

(He is rather.)

Tim frowns. ‘Geographically or..? Oh!’ he nods slyly as he catches on. ‘It’s another ‘mouth’ isn’t it? Shit, I can’t remember them all. Give us a hint?’ 

‘Not telling.’ 

‘Weymouth?’ 

Jon snorts a laugh. ‘God, you know you’re from nowhere special when Weymouth is more memorable.’ 

‘I used to go there as a kid. Uhh. Oh! I’ve got it.’ 

‘Have you?’

‘Bournemouth?’ 

The coins rattle in the pot as a whole cascade of them comes down the shoot. Jon scrapes his winnings into the little plastic pot and shakes them smugly as he stands up straight. 

‘Born and raised,’ he says, and the impressed and gleeful glint in Tim’s eyes as he looks at the spoils makes him actually a little bit proud of the fact for once. 

It’s good to know all the hours spent on tiptoe loading penny after lonely penny into the slots has brought him something after all. 

‘Woah,’ Tim laughs, ‘I think we’re rich now.’ 

Their foreheads are very close as Tim peers over. His knuckles brush Jon’s fingers as he pokes through the bowl of copper. When he reaches the bottom his finger trip dents the the thin plastic into Jon’s palms. 

Something else rattles inside the machine and they both look down again, moment broken. 

‘I think you might have won again,’ Tim shakes his head with a smile. ‘Somehow.’ 

Jon squats hastily to fish it out and hopes unreasonably and nonsensically that it’s something good. 

His prize is a frankly impractically huge pompom that takes some tugging to free from the chute. It’s baby pink and cheaply soft. As Jon turns it over distastefully in his fingers he realises it’s attached to a keyring. Well that is _properly_ impractical. It’s bigger than his whole ring of keys. 

He stands up and offers it lamely to Tim with an apologetic huff.

‘Sorry, wasn’t trying to win you something so... pink.’

‘I like pink,’ Tim grins, taking it from him and stroking the plush fabric. ‘Ohhh, soft.’ 

‘You really don’t have to put that on your keys,’ Jon cringes. ‘I understand if you don’t want to look like you drive a Fiat five-hundred.’ 

Tim laughs raucously at that. ‘Maybe I like Fiat five-hundreds.’

Jon makes a sceptical, disgruntled face.

‘Well if this makes me look like I own a car at _all_ ,’ Tim waves the keyring round on his finger like he’s twirling the keys to a Porche. ‘I will take it and run. Now. What are you going to show me next?’ 

They take on the ice hockey next, and Tim is even more outraged and thrilled when Jon sinks puck after plastic puck into his goalmouth. Tim sends his own puck back with such ferocity that it clatters into Jon’s wrist. He pleads apologetic innocence - ‘I’m sorry, it wasn't on purpose, it’s just my aim!’ - then insists on flirting - ‘you could probably still beat me with that behind your back.’ Jon rolls his eyes but sticks his hand obligingly behind his back, tucks it under his jumper _without_ thinking too much about it why it's sweating over an easy victory, and beats him anyway. 

Next is the shooting range. ‘You’re seriously good at this too?’ Tim gawps, and Jon tries very hard not to fumble his next shot, feeling Tim staring at where the butt of the rifle is squished into his shoulder. ‘Practice,’ he explains hoarsely. 

Then Tim demands they take to the little podium that hosts the dance mats, and Jon falters for a second. 

‘I can’t do that,’ he says, and he doesn’t explain. 

Tim grins wide like a little fox. ‘All the more reason,’ he insists, ‘you have to let me beat you at something.’ But he softens as he watches Jon hover around the mat, feet tucked back from its edge. ‘You didn’t play this?’ 

‘It’s two player,’ Jon explains lamely. 

He doesn’t go into the details. It’s a bit of a bummer on the day if he admits to being bullied off the machine by the big kids.

Tim sighs. It’s a nice sigh, actually, not as patronising as it could be, but Jon still hates it. _It’s okay,_ he wants to say, _I did it to myself, it’s not a problem._ He hates people’s pity when he rarely gets it. Tim is nice enough that he’ll give it and it’ll be an awful ordeal. Jon grits his teeth a bit against it, looks away. 

He’s exceptionally surprised and glad when Tim doesn’t pursue the image of him small and alone in nautical stripes and too short trouders watching nosily while the cool kids play. Instead, Tim actually smiles, and holds his hand out. 

‘Might I beg the honour of this dance, my lord?’ He intones, in a primmed up posh RP that Jon could easily take offence at. 

He doesn't. Instead he puts his fingers in Tim’s palm, rolling his eyes through the rising temperature, and steps onto the mat. 

It turns out they’re both awful. The arrows come up far too thick and fast for Jon’s taste and he’s never heard the awful techno-dubstep-pop-dance whatever song that’s playing. Tim is a good dancer, so their colleagues who have been out with him have said. But it turns out his coordination is nowhere near as smooth as his lines. 

‘Shitting hell,’ he says, panting from his whirling limbs, ‘this isn’t dancing, this is aerobics.’ 

‘This is _maths,’_ Jon laughs as he counts furiously, stamping far too hard. 

It’s hard to say who trips first but one second they’re failing upright and the next Tim is is holding Jon’s elbow and they’re wobbling into a breathless heap against the screen with a clattering of lanyards on metal. It is all very embarrassing - to be legs akimbo and to hear each other’s pulses and gasping breathes over the awful music. 

And to be bad at the dancing, of course. The machine keeps beeping to remind them how hard they’re failing. But Tim is smiling, laughing as Jon shakes his slightly sweaty hair out of his eyes. Tim reaches to help him push it back and that feels like a win in Jon’s book anyway. At least it does until the music ends the machine plays a sad _wah wah wahhhh_ that makes Tim turn away to give it an affronted glare. He’s cute when he scrunches his face like that. 

They move on, through more slots, and skiiball, and pacman. Jon keeps winning. As long as it’s one player and something you can practice until closing time and be late for supper he can beat it. He wins so much it winds Tim up and he takes it out on the worst choice he possibly could - the claw machine. 

‘You’ll never win,’ Jon says in something almost close to a singsong. This day out really has pulled something out of him. 

‘Shut up,’ Tim tells him, throwing another coin in.

‘These things are _designed_ not to let you win, even I’ve only won once.’

‘You’ve won one of these?’ Tim groans but he doesn’t seem cross. ‘Course you bloody have. No, I will beat this machine. It’s a matter of principle.’ 

‘Come on, you’re burning money. Let’s play something else.’

‘What so you can beat me at something else?’ Tim shakes his head, biting his lip as he inches the joystick closer to his prize. ‘No sir.’ 

Jon looks at his concentrating mouth, the tip of his tongue poking out, very pink, under his teeth. ‘We’re supposed to be working,’ he says, half to himself, ‘remember?’

Tim brushes that off, as he always does when he’s anywhere other the specific library section he haunts some nights. ‘Worm schmurk,’ he says, lowering the claw towards a little white box in the very centre of the foam pit. ‘Do you want a new iPod shuffle or not?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why you ungrateful..! Course not, I suppose it’s a bit modern for you, isn’t it?’

‘Piss off.’

‘You piss off, I’m concentrating.’ 

The little box slips in the claw’s feeble grip agains and Tim slams a desperate hand against the plastic, whining desperately as he tries the joystick. 

‘No, no, no, come on!’ Tim begs the machine. 

But the box falls back into the foam, leaving the limp claw empty as it returns with a traitorous shudder to the start. 

‘Do _not_ laugh at me,’ Tim laughs as Jon’s already laughing. 

They giggle as Tim slaps the machine again without much anger to it. They keep laughing so much that Tim half collapses with his back against the machine, one hand wiping the beginnings of tears from his smile-creased eyes. Jon’s chest hurts from laughing. He hasn’t laughed this much in a while. 

It winds down to pants and huffs and snickers and Tim holds his stomach as he lets out a shakey hum. The quiet that it winds down into feels softer and calmer than before. 

‘I wanted to win you something.’

‘I don’t want anything,’ Jon says honestly. He doesn’t have a very reassuring tone, he knows, never did, but he means it in a nice way. ‘I’ve got enough of this tat at home.’ 

‘Tat?’ Tim exclaims in mock outrage, fishing out his pink keyring and clutching it close to his chest. ‘I’ll treasure this forever, thank you very much!’ 

Jon laughs at the face he pulls but has nothing to say to the words. They aren’t actually very funny if he means them. They make something clench nicely in his stomach.  He must have let a smile slip because Tim grins back at him, foot scuffing on the faded spiralling carpet. 

‘Must be something else I can give you?’ He asks with one eyebrow raised. 

Jon doesn’t give him the satisfaction of playing along. That or he’s stumped again. He scoffs at the rainbow splodged carpet. But when he looks up Tim is still looking at him.

‘Fine,’ he bites, trying his best to sound exasperated, ‘what?’ 

It’s a little quieter than he was aiming for. 

Tim clicks his tongue and thinks about it for a second. Then he hooks a finger into one of Jon’s belt loops to pull him in. He huffs a very tiny laugh, devoid of any meanness, when Jon stumbles slightly into his chest, but he doesn’t lean down yet. 

‘What?’ Jon demands, a bit breathless from the wind knocked out of him. Maybe a bit impatient, as he always has been when he doesn’t win first time. 

Tim gives him a few more slow seconds of playful appraisal, or maybe is just waiting for him to go first. When he doesn’t, Tim rolls his eyes, nudges Jon’s jaw up with his thumb and plants one on him firmly. 

His mouth doesn’t taste like candy floss, because that would be ridiculous and childish, but it is soft, and even softer when he starts to open it. He tastes normal, but nice. Then he tastes like the small noise Jon makes into his mouth. 

Someone coughs over their shoulders and Jon drops off his tiptoes to glare round. 

A gang of teenagers are eyeing them with something like envious, awkward disapproval, and it’s not worth trying to flex the adult authority they’ve rather gone and lost kissing against the claw machine. So they snicker and scamper off, Jon’s hand squished and pliant where Tim grabs it to tug him round the corner. 

They tumble into a cramped, hard plastic booth supposed to simulate some kind of race car. The faux-leather of the driver’s seat is peeling and the foam underneath it hisses out sweat-smelling air as Tim pushes Jon into it. He bashes his head on the roof on his way down and swears. 

‘Don’t laugh, that hurt!’ He whines indignantly, but Jon keeps laughing until he’s kissed into the headrest. 

They stay there until they're kicked out: Tim half in Jon’s lap with one foot on the gas pedal, tinny revving sounds from the speakers nothing to the growling in their chests, pushed button to button with office lanyards clacking together. Giggles turn to quiet, contented pants as they kiss slowly, deeply, happily. 

Like teenagers again, Jon thinks. He would have liked to have had a Tim in Bournemouth, to go snogging in dark corners and to talk to about everything. But this is nice now too. Having someone’s weight on top of him in the cramped booth with the sound of children shrieking and the bleeping fanfares of the attractions. Fantastic, actually. Maybe better now he doesn’t feel the pressure of being sixteen and un-kissed. 

Maybe they can go to a proper theme park one day. He’s always wanted to, secretly. He’s only been on the Crazy Mouse once, on that day trip to Brighton, and the closest he’s got to the swopping thrill of a rollercoaster since is in Tim’s mouth right now. 

Heavy breaths turn back to giggles as someone in uniform raps loudly on the plastic above their heads. Jon doesn’t even have time to read whether the man is actual security or just an underpaid and tired attendant before Tim’s hand is round his wrist and pulling him away. It winds into his fingers as they stumble outside, chilly London drizzle hitting his hot cheeks. 

_That wasn’t very professional,_ he thinks. He checks his face with the back of his hand as Tim laughs to the sky, checks over his shoulder to see if they’ve been chased out. They haven’t, and when Tim squeezes his hand he doesn’t care much anyway. 

‘Lunch?’ Tim asks, as if it isn’t nearly half-two, as if things can be the same outside. 

‘You’re a terrible employee.’ 

‘So are you,’ Tim points out, which makes Jon frown and push his shoulders back. 

He’s trying at least a _bit_ to be professional.

But Tim grins and taps at the worried, haughty lines in his forehead with his spare hand. 

‘We’ll do overtime,’ he says, reassuring under teasing, ‘and if we get in trouble, I’ll take the bullet. Alright, boss?’

‘I’m not your boss,’ Jon reminds him, ignoring the rest of his sarky niceness because it seems a bit much if he acknowledges it. 

‘Keep snogging like that and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,’ Tim laughs, swinging their clasped hands between them like they aren’t nearly thirty. Jon shoves them both into his chest in protest. 

But Tim doesn’t let go. He holds Jon’s hand all the way into a little lino-lined cafe, doesn’t let go even at the counter as he ponders whether it’s too late for breakfast, and Jon’s starting to wonder if this is just... something he does. Hold onto people. 

Maybe his hand is just convenient. He doesn’t like that thought at all. 

But then Tim has a full English and Jon has toast with the terrible margarine he likes and mushrooms stolen off Tim’s plate, and over the empty plates Tim wrestles the pink keyring onto his house set. The huge pompom isn’t at all convenient. So it must be something else. 

‘We should take more research trips,’ he says, ‘more fun than I thought it would be, when it’s not a haunted house.’ 

Jon folds his cutlery together and clasps his lanyard back around his neck. 

‘Alright,’ he says eventually, perhaps still a little hesitantly. His hands fall in his lap. 

Tim chews his lip for a second before letting it go. ‘I had fun, anyway.’ He says, like he’s thinking hard. ‘I hope you- hope I didn’t cross a line..?’

‘No,’ Jon says quickly. ‘No you didn’t it, uh. It was fun. Just...’ He looks at his watch. ‘It’s gone three, so.’

‘Gotcha, no in-office fraternisation,’ Tim shoots his finger guns across the table. 

‘Well, maybe...’ 

‘Oh, maybe, is it?’

‘Shut up,’ he says and Tim smirks at him, rising out of his seat with the scraping of cheap metal on plastic flooring. 

His hand curls into Jon’s lanyard and tugs him across the table, and Jon’s huff of surprise turns to a pleased hum as Tim kisses him again, with a nice height change now he’s half standing. But his hum turns to a groan as the tell tale click of plastic hits a plate, and he pulls back to see his ID card sitting in Tim’s beans. 

'Stop laughing,’ he scowls as Tim hands him a napkin with tears in his eyes. 

By the time they get back to the institute, Tim has managed to get the obscenely pink keyring on properly. Sasha tells him it’s very fetching as he shows it off in the corridor. ‘Thank you kindly, miss,’ Tim says, but he kindly doesn’t tell her where he got it. 

The hallways feel cramped and austere after the arcade and the cafe and the whole of London that had seemed open to them. Now every look Tim gives him makes Jon blush in a bad way. He doesn’t like people talking about him. 

‘Ride home?’ Tim asks when it gets closer to eight, jangling his keys and swinging the pompom round his finger. ‘I can whisk you away in my Fiat five-hundred?’

The office feels different. Like the spell has broken and always, _always_ like they’re being watched. Their supervisor’s door is closed but the light is on and Jon can’t remember if it stays like that at night. 

‘Tube sounds safer to me,’ he admits. 

Tim takes the put down surprisingly well and Jon’s grateful for the fact his hand stays empty as they walk together along the corridors, turning out the last lights as they go. Ah well. He does this every time, so it’s really no great loss. Even if his hand begs to differ. 

Then, next week, something comes up again. Tim is frowning and studying maps of an aquarium where ‘spooky happenings have been going down’, and Jon wheels over to take a look. 

‘We could go,’ he says, offhand over shy, ‘you know, see for ourselves?’

Tim sees straight through him, as he’s want to, and beams. 

‘Sure.’ Then he groans into a laugh. ‘God, you’re not gonna tell me you’re an expert on aquariums too now?’

They make it halfway round before their hands touch. 

‘You shouldn’t really touch them,’ Jon says of the starfish. But he follows Tim’s hand into the cool water and points out some interesting coral so that their fingers brush. 

Tim smiles like he knows the game and links their dripping fingers together gently as they watch the starfish float away from other people.

There’s not many kids around, but it’s still not quiet, so they walk and talk and, if Jon’s being honest, flirt under the peaceful blanket of quiet. Only occasionally interrupted by a child screaming or a parent shushing. 

Tim talks about how much he’d loved _Finding Nemo_ as a kid, and how his parents had taken him and Danny snorkelling in Mallorca when they were twelve and ten. Jon hadn’t left the country until a uni ski trip with Georgie, but he doesn’t feel embarrassed to say it now that Tim’s told him he has a brother. Danny. He says the name with admiration as well as love. Says it openly, trustingly. 

So Jon takes Tim’s hand properly, pulls him over to the seahorses and tells him every fact he knows about them. Everything he remembers from being eleven and stood staring up the graceful bobbing creatures for hours, before he was caught by the kind, exasperated security guards and yet again pushed out in the foyer with the instruction ‘ _phone your parent_ s’. 

‘And what did your parents say?’ Tim asks, and he’s half laughing and his teeth and his hair look so strangely pretty in the blue light of the tall tank that Jon doesn’t get awkward telling him they said nothing.

‘Oh,' Tim's face drops. 'Sorry,’ he says very quietly. ‘God, sorry, I was trying to flirt and I stepped right in it-'

‘It’s fine,’ Jon tells him, and it honestly is. 

He’d thought this would be a fun trip out. Something like the arcade again, with back and forth and teasing kissing. This is a lot more, actually. Suddenly privacy matters more than it did in the loudness of the arcade, but it doesn’t feel like paranoia. 

It’s quieter now, and Jon looks round to see if it’s just that it feels it, stood in the cool dappling light. The room is nearly empty. 

He looks right up at Tim’s blue lit face, watches the shadows of the seahorses play over his cheekbones. He doesn’t look like a challenge here. Doesn’t look like he wants to make things difficult. 

‘What?’ He asks when he catches Jon staring, but it’s genuine now. 

In a fit of unprofessional boldness Jon takes his chin to pull him down. And in a fit of very much not-research-based softness, kisses him very gently. They stay there for a while, swapping kisses back and forth, backlit by the blue glow of the seahorse tank. 

After that seal is broken (no pun intended) they slide easily back into their teenage catch-up games again. The penguins are sweet and they’re holding hands. The pufferfish reminds Tim of Jon spines, and the bright coloured bettas remind Jon of Tim’s extensive Hawaiian shirt collection. The deep ocean room is dark and too frightening for kids, and the corner is darker and Tim’s hands are on Jon’s jaw and in his back pocket until a tour guide arrives. 

Jon would’ve blitzed through the gift shop, not seeing the point in getting stuck behind slow walking tourists perusing tat. But Tim points out the book shelf and suggests with a wink that he might try to _actually_ do some research. So he flicks through a few books on the history of the building, but they’re mainly pictures and architecture is mainly Tim’s thing anyway. 

It’s only after they emerge into the bright grey daylight that it becomes clear Tim sent him away on a fool’s errand on purpose. 

He takes out a brown paper bag and presses it into Jon’s hand on the pavement. It’s a keyring - a little seahorse made of cheap flexible plastic and sprayed yellow and orange, with a metal ring glued to its tail. It probably cost far more than what it is. And what it is is, objectively, crap. But something is happy in Jon’s chest and he wrestles it onto his keys as they walk back to work. 

Now when they lock up their filing cabinets they make far more noise; the memories and the shivering spark scraping and thumping, as the keyrings won with chivalry and bought with sweetened change knock against the metal. 

**Author's Note:**

> full credit for the idea has to come from my jtmcu anon who sent me the prompt about them playing at the arcade...... i love u mystery anon..... 
> 
> ty for reading uwu u can find my on tumblr @ babyyodablackwood xoxo


End file.
